Sitting at her own dressing table, slowly applying makeup, all she could think about was Grayson’s trial and what the press had been like back then. For weeks they had hounded her. What better to decorate stories about a drug-related slaying with than photos of the accused’s photogenic girlfriend? Almost overnight she had watched as her status in the papers went from ‘key witness in a murder trial’ to ‘spoiled, haughty gangster princess’. As a witness she was gagged during the trial itself, unable to defend herself or even explain. Meanwhile her every movement was dissected for the delight of the tabloids, every fleeting expression or gesture presumed to have some sinister significance.
While the court found her a credible witness to the events of that night, the damage from the media was already done – such as her mother’s addictions triumphantly announced on the cover of a Sunday paper. The exclusive four-page interview inside was presented as the key to Erykah’s personality that, in the absence of her being able to speak for herself, they had already crafted as ‘aloof’ and ‘detached’. Erykah read the interview with horror, cringing at the shot of Rainbow holding a baby photo of Erykah, begging her daughter to get help.
So cheap. So manipulative. So very popular with the paper-buying public.
By the end of the trial there was only one person Erykah felt she could still trust, and he was going to prison. The spare details of her life had been padded out by hacks fluent in boilerplate phrases and tinned motivations, written on spec to fit tabloid pre-decided agendas. Gangster’s Girl Rikki Protects Her Man. Leggy Rikki B Flashes Her Pins In Designer Frock. Good Girl Gone Bad. Whatever or whoever she had thought herself to be was lost in the noise of public disapproval. Nobody wanted the truth because that would be boring.
Then one day the cameras were gone. No more reporters knocking on the neighbours’ doors, no more suspicious-sounding clicks on the line any time she used the phone. Fresh scandals obsessed the news cycle and the vultures went elsewhere.
To her surprise, it felt like another loss. Without the constant stress of avoiding reporters or feeling battered by whatever new claim they were making, now there was nothing to distract from the wasteland of what was left. Her first love behind bars, her mother below contempt. No degree, no job. Her life in tatters and the feeling that she might be the only person left in the world who did not think she was evil.
Erykah unravelled the braid she had plaited to protect her hair from the rain, and gently pulled a wide comb through the curls. We can pack up and leave. Go for a year, for the rest of our lives. Wasn’t that what Rab had said only a few days ago? But then she remembered what he had done and why this was happening at all. She had no choice but to go through with the plan as agreed with Billy and Buster. And maybe, just maybe, she could try to turn it to her advantage this time.
Deep breath. Hold it. Exhale. Her heart rate began to drop and the tingling pressure crawling up her neck started to ease off. Erykah went downstairs to face the music.
A beat-up Mercedes was parked halfway up the street, past the notice of any curious members of the press. There was no sign of Buster this time – too many people with cameras hanging about the place. Just Seminole Billy. He nodded at Erykah as she wove through the crowd to where cameramen were setting up lights. He stood on the edge of the garden, legs planted apart, arms folded across his chest. He was wearing those black cowboy boots again, the ones with the gleaming metal toes.
A young woman pulled Erykah to one side. She introduced herself as Heather Matthews, general secretary of the SLU. Erykah smiled and shook her hand. She felt an instant flash of dislike for the woman, though she couldn’t put a finger on why. Maybe it was the air of confidence that seemed to come so naturally – a product of public schools, no doubt. Or was it that she had the flippy blonde hair and jolly-hockey-sticks attitude of the sort of woman her husband idolised? ‘I wanted to say before everyone arrives, Mrs Macdonald, how very grateful we are that you and your husband agreed to do this,’ she said. ‘Not only the donation, but agreeing to have the press conference here as well. It’s not every day we get a helping hand from a lottery in the Isle of Man!’
‘Channel Islands, I heard,’ Erykah said.
‘Whatever.’ Heather waved her hand and beamed an orthodontically perfect smile. ‘The details don’t matter now. What matters is this will be priceless promotion for the SLU campaign.’
‘Yes, of course,’ Erykah said. Details wouldn’t matter to someone like Heather, would they? The soft cooing and butter-wouldn’t-melt countenance of girls like her was surely a product of the fact that she was probably doing this for a lark, had taken a prominent internship to ease her way into politics or business or whatever birthright job had been hers from the cradle. But she could put aside her judgment of Heather for the moment; with luck she wouldn’t see her again. ‘With my husband having Scottish roots this is an issue we feel so passionately about. As I’m sure you can imagine,’ she said.
‘Your husband is going to join us, isn’t he?’
‘Absolutely.’ Rab’s face peered out from behind the curtain. Erykah looked over the crowd and her eyes met Billy’s. An almost imperceptible nod.
‘How do I look?’ Erykah asked Heather, and adjusted the front of her jacket, a grey-and-purple flecked Harris tweed. Just enough cleavage, not too much, and a hint of a cream-coloured silk blouse peeking out. A loop of purple-and-white satin pinned to one lapel – the Scotland Liberal Unionist campaign’s official ribbon.
‘Good,’ Heather said without looking. She clutched a clipboard and a stack of glossy leaflets advertising the party’s policies. On the front, the SLU insignia: a purple-and-white saltire rippling in the breeze, barely different from a clip art logo. Erykah thought it looked amateurish. But maybe that was the angle they were going for – appealing to people sick of slick career statesmen and politics as usual in Westminster. ‘And don’t worry, it won’t just be you and Mr Macdonald today,’ she said, dropping her voice. ‘We have a celebrity joining us.’
Erykah smiled. ‘Oh?’ This was unexpected.
‘In fact,’ Heather said as a black private hire car pulled up to the kerb, ‘it looks like our headliner is here. I didn’t want to say, because his train down from Scotland was running behind, and I was worried he wouldn’t make it at all.’
A man with a green kilt and luxurious moustache emerged and stepped through the crowd. He took a last drag of his half-smoked cigarette, crushed it out on the bark of a tree, and turned to wave at the people shouting his name. Heather grabbed his arm and guided him to the group in the middle of the garden. ‘Erykah, this is Major Whitney Abbott. He will be accepting your donation on behalf of Scotland Liberal Unionists. He’s also agreed to be our Edinburgh candidate for the European Parliament in the next election.’
‘I know who Major Abbott is.’ Erykah smiled at the barrel-chested officer. ‘I’m a huge fan,’ she purred. ‘Your book about the Falklands War was so inspiring. I couldn’t wait to snuggle up with it every bedtime.’
Major Whitney Abbott smiled and shook her hand. ‘Always a pleasure to meet a fan,’ he said.
‘You know, I have the book, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind . . .’ Erykah said.
The Major smiled as she darted inside. He exchanged glances with Heather. ‘Autograph,’ he said. ‘They always want one.’
The crowd was growing restless. Heather tried to hand out some of the flyers, but most waved her off and asked about the website instead. ‘It’s still under construction,’ she objected, but they were already on their phones browsing the address.
Erykah returned with the Major’s memoirs and also a copy of one of his father’s books of collected columns. He clenched his jaw but signed them both anyway. ‘Where are you from?’ he asked as he wrote.
‘London,’ she said. ‘Born and grew up in Streatham, we moved here after we married.’
‘No, I mean,’ the Major said, ‘where
are your people from?’
Erykah’s smile stiffened. She knew what he was asking. Racist old fuck. ‘London,’ she said sternly.
‘Let’s check the social media coverage,’ Heather interrupted, tapping at a smartphone. ‘Scotland Liberal Unionist Party is trending. We’re number three nationwide!’ She looked at the Major as if to say, I told you so.
Erykah leaned over for a closer look. No mention of the details yet, but that would come. Heather had advised her and Rab to keep the exact amount of the donation a secret so it would have more impact on the day.
But what impact would there be now? With the money about to leave their hands and someone else’s star dazzling the media, the most Erykah could expect from this was an expedited divorce. She kept smiling, but her teeth clenched in anger. All Rab had managed to do was buy enough time to get himself out of hot water. She had already lost the few things that made her life bearable because of this. Her past being served up for the papers all over again hadn’t occurred to him as a potential risk, because it hadn’t mattered to him.
Because he didn’t care.
The Major cleared his throat. Rab skulked out of the house and joined the small group. He looked grey and unwell. Erykah foisted her handbag on him and he winced as the strap snagged on his broken fingers, still taped together. Erykah hissed, ‘Smile.’ He smiled.
‘Ladies, gentlemen!’ the Major bellowed. ‘And journalists.’ A titter of polite laughter rippled through the audience. ‘Welcome. And thank you for coming today. I know you all have vital dirt digging – I mean news gathering – to get back to, so I’ll keep this brief.’
‘Smooth, isn’t he,’ Rab scowled. Erykah jabbed her elbow in her husband’s side.
‘Today is an extraordinary day for the Scotland Liberal Unionists,’ the Major continued. ‘We all know Britain’s military, not to mention its business, is far stronger together than split apart. It turned out the electorate agreed. With the bedrock of our rich tradition as both a family of nations and a nation of families upheld, it is now time to look to the future. A future where the SLU will be leading the way.’
‘Says nothing at all in as many words possible,’ Rab muttered.
‘Oh, fuck off Rab,’ Erykah whispered, her smile unwavering.
‘You are no doubt wondering why we’ve asked you to meet us at the home of some of the UK’s newest-minted millionaires,’ the Major continued. ‘Not only do most people agree that Scotland should be part of Great Britain, but this couple . . .’ the Major turned and smiled at Erykah and Rab with the dazzling hundred-watt gleam of expensive dentures, ‘have donated no less than nineteen million pounds to the Scotland Liberal Unionist Party.’
A sharp intake of breath from the press corps. A few mumbles as reporters did the sums. Wasn’t that almost their entire lottery win? That was a ridiculous amount, unheard of. Was it even legal? ‘That’s a lot,’ supplied one voice from the crowd. The EuroMillions winners who had given a million each to the Yes campaign and to the SNP a few years back had definitely been outplayed.
‘Yes, it is a lot of money, and yes, it is an unprecedented gesture of generosity from a private donor,’ the Major continued. ‘But I think I speak for all of us involved with the Scotland Liberal Unionist Party when I assure Mr and Mrs Macdonald that it will go to the best cause possible – seeing that the SLU is represented in Brussels, mounting a challenge to the nationalist stranglehold on Scotland, and ensuring a stable future for our British children and our children’s children.’
The Major paused to smile. Brussels would be a most welcome change. He had had it with London, with the backstabbing media who promised six-figure deals but delivered royalty statements that would have embarrassed a church mouse. Becoming an MEP would mean expense accounts, reimbursed travel, and crucially – time far, far away from the beady eyes of his wife.
‘My dear Mr and Mrs Macdonald,’ the Major said. ‘I speak on behalf of the Scotland Liberal Unionist Party, and I hope on behalf of the future of Britain, when I say we cannot thank you enough.’
Erykah beamed as a dozen flashes went off just inches from her face. She’d practiced the smile for hours beforehand, trying to get the right balance of pleased and modest. She knew how to work a look. ‘No, thank you Major, for giving us the opportunity to contribute in such a meaningful way to the debate,’ she said. Rab, meanwhile, looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. ‘I understand this has kicked off the discussion on the Internet, and I hope it encourages even more people to get involved with the cause of repairing the Union and healing the scars caused by that unfortunate and divisive referendum.’
Seminole Billy watched from the back. The woman was doing well. Not much could be said about the husband, which was for the best. No chance now the man might go to the police instead of holding up his end of the bargain. If anything did go sour a follow-up visit would discourage the idiot from breaking rank.
‘We’re the top trend in the country right now,’ Heather murmured to the Major. ‘Number two in the world trends. Let’s open it up to questions.’
Erykah nodded and clapped as the Major dispatched expected questions with well-rehearsed answers. ‘It’s scaremongering, it’s the very opposite of the truth,’ he rumbled in response to claims that English MPs were plotting to prevent Scotland recovering from the recession. ‘A narrow nationalism that makes cosy deals with media and prays for more recession to convince the Scottish people to support an independence they have told us they do not want.’ The Major was getting into his stride. ‘The evidence was never on the side of independence. The nationalists have not won hearts and they have not won minds,’ he bellowed. ‘Now is the time to talk about a constitutional settlement for all of the United Kingdom.’
Erykah exhaled slowly. She noted none of the questions were being directed towards her and Rab. Weren’t they the ones making the donation after all?
‘So why the need for the SLU?’ asked one reporter. ‘If most people are, as you say, on the side of staying with the Union, can’t they do that through the existing parties?’
‘It gives a unified voice to us in the silent majority,’ Erykah interjected. There was a flash of cameras when she spoke. She positioned herself behind and to the side of Heather and the Major so that they both had to turn away from the audience in order to hear her. A classic upstage.
‘For people like my husband, whose family left Scotland in bad economic times, and now, one or two generations later, are facing active discrimination from independence supporters for being proud to be British as well as Scottish.’ She stopped and smiled to make sure the reporters were able to get every word. ‘As his Glaswegian grandfather used to say,’ she paused to frown slightly, as if remembering halcyon days soaking up the wisdom of the long-dead alcoholic widower she had never met, ‘They may take our land, but they can never take our . . .’ No, no, that was too much, too Braveheart. ‘Um, they can never take our heritage.’
‘And the independence propagandists would do exactly that,’ Heather blurted, ‘take away your heritage.’ She smiled and swivelled back to face the crowd.
A reporter up at the front waved. According to his press card he was from one of those magazines that was given away free on the Tube and in railway stations. Not the lowest of the low by any means – but not far off the bottom of the totem pole either. Heather, feeling generous, gestured to him. He took a deep breath. ‘In an economy when most charities are struggling to get donations, considering the SLU has only existed for a short time, doesn’t the timing of this donation seem a little suspicious?’
The Major and Heather exchanged glances. What was this fellow on about? Heather hesitated. ‘Excuse me?’ she said.
‘Isn’t it odd that a group that . . .’ He scrolled down on his smartphone for information. ‘Registered only last month is already getting a larger donation than any political party to date? That’s the most effective fun
draising I’ve ever heard about and many, many people are asking questions. I’m sure other groups would love to know your secret.’ The reporter smirked at Major Abbott. ‘We can assume it isn’t because of the quality of your up-and-coming political candidates.’
The Major glared at the weedy man. He’d been told the press conference was going to be straightforward. He didn’t have the time or patience to go off-piste. ‘Where are you getting this nonsense from?’
‘It’s all over the web,’ he said, turning the smartphone towards the rest of the press corps so they could see. Some were already looking it up themselves. ‘An anonymous account tweeted the link to your foundation at Companies House a few minutes ago; it’s already been retweeted over a thousand times already. Someone calling themselves Media Mouse,’ the man said. ‘Also, Mrs Macdonald? Your top button’s just come undone.’ Erykah clapped a hand to her chest.
‘Shut this down and get me out of here!’ the Major spat at Heather. But his eyes were glued to Erykah’s breasts. A dozen cameras managed to catch the moment, his moustachioed face poised between lust and hate as the SLU’s secretary cowered in fear. The picture was on the web in moments.
Erykah looked out over the group of reporters and spotted Seminole Billy by the rhododendrons. She raised her eyebrows almost imperceptibly. He shrugged and shook his head – no idea. The media monkeys were typing like mad on their phones. The virtual appearance of some unknown third party was going to take over the story instead of Scotland Liberal Unionists having the final word. This was a surprise, and Seminole Billy didn’t like surprises. The people who hired him usually didn’t either. This anonymous tweeter – whoever it turned out to be – was on his radar now.
All the reporters had their phones out now, either tweeting the events or hoping to catch a photo that might go viral. It was time to bail. ‘I’m very sorry, the Major has a prior appointment elsewhere this afternoon so we have to finish here,’ Heather said, and grabbed the Major’s sleeve to guide him to the waiting car. ‘Thank you all for coming today.’
The Turning Tide Page 15